"His will is pretty weak."
I talked & talked to my warm puppyish boy for around an hour last night. Oh, it was just I’d needed. I love how we so understand each other, and in another run in with something or someone that I’ll never understand, it was wonderful to know that he was out there too, breathing & fighting, laughing & hell bent. We two are the sort who relish in it, and will look up with a bloodied nose, the thin red blood that streams into your mouth, in the tight crevices between your teeth, and choke out, “Is that all you got?” How I say, apologetically, “I just need to let you know, that if we drink together, I’ll probably try to sleep with you,” and he responded enough to know that I have nothing to apologize for. He says his will is pretty weak. How we run to each other, mangled and proud. How, when in a bar or pool hall, we know that if you dare put a finger on that jukebox, you better know how to start it, how to ride it through to the end. The seduction of we others that always starts with something like “Dream On” that lets everyone in the fucking joint know that we’re on our knees, crawling out of ditches, just like them. That I’ll vagrantly throw my fucking hips, in some mock dance, into the sides of the whole room, daring them. That, before the night ends, you better punch Guns N Fucking Roses. How he says, “Hell, I don’t blame me a bit,” and I laugh until I can’t breathe in a coughing fit, and it feels fucking better than anything.